Are you there God? It's me

In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of… death. It is Covid season, after all. And it is not just the legitimately and legally young who think it too early to die – all of us do, whenever our birthday. As we gingerly step into the world masked and gloved, we are aware of the toll this ever-present danger has taken on our mental, physical, fiscal, creative and spiritual health.

Planning for the future is now on autopilot, a previous obsession robbed of its simple pleasures. Vaccine or no vaccine, we can’t help thinking that we may not make it. And this brings us to regrets if any.

When we previously thought of deathbed confessions, we imagined lying delicately in sepia sunlight, being wise beyond words at the ripe old age of ninety-plus. Surrounded by pensive grandkids and people just grateful to be around us, we break into a self-deprecating monologue that will be quoted widely. We dreamt of photogenic funerals and inconsolable former lovers; mourners refusing to accept our going; people too choked to tell each other of our passing.

Now we suspect a quick forgetting. A down-market mention among acquaintances. A statistic brought up in passing. Worse, no one will know we are gone till they try our number and there is no answer; we will just be missed calls in the end! So we quickly revise our Last Words. Like the hero shot in a desi film who knows he won’t make it – leading men who survive don’t launch into long speeches – we stutter and stammer breathlessly to anyone who will listen. And what is it that we say? Turns out we only have instructions on the hoarded basmati sacks in the store room.